


blood mixed with wine and robbery

by objectlesson



Category: Cars (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Age Difference, Drunk Sex, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, PWP, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 08:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18495577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: A motel room and too much champagne





	blood mixed with wine and robbery

**Author's Note:**

> Someone (you know you who are) sent the prompt "kiss me" and uhhhh it got so long!!! This is just what happens, I love them too much to be concise apparently. 
> 
> Drunk sex again, so whatever dub-con that might pose for people, please exercise self-care. As per usual there's verbal consent, but lowered inhibitions lead to initiation sooooo just fyi if that bothers you!!
> 
> Unbetaed, I just crank this shit out too fast. enjoy!

You’re wearing nothing but a dress shirt over boxers, like Tom Cruise in _Risky Business._ The shirt is hastily unbuttoned down your chest so you can actually fucking breathe, the skin of your throat chaffed and irritated since you spent the whole stuffy Grand-Prix benefit dinner tugging at the collar. You fucking hate dressing up, so you also ended up drinking way too much champagne with Doc, who generally dislikes any of the shmoozy dinners and events he's roped into as your crew chief. Modern racing requires a lot more than just _driving,_ and Doc never stops grumbling about that, even though you suspect he secretly enjoys all the folks who recognize him and come up to ask for autographs. 

Now, back at the hotel, you’re both drunk on cheap sparkling wine. Your head is spinning and you’ve been in a fantastic mood since you _finally_ kicked off your pinchy dress shoes and shucked the trousers and suspenders. Doc keeps doing impressions of the ambassadors who all tried desperately in vain to steal you from Rust-Eze, and you’re cracking up, sprawled out on the same bed, physically close in a way that makes your heart race. 

This happens a lot, but you try not to press on it. Instead you just _avoid_ it, so you don’t have to wonder why the heat of Doc’s laughing breath makes you dizzy, makes you want to pitch forward into his ams. 

You’re wine-drunk now though, and it’s hard to remember why you run from this stuff. It just feels good to be close, for your arms to brush as you reach over him to grab the bottle you stole from the catering kitchen, take a golden, glittering swig of it before you hand it to him. “You’re the best person to do literally anything with, you know that?” you say fondly, watching his throat bob as he swallows, the skin soft and gathered and dusted in silver stubble. 

He coughs as he sets the bottle down, shaking his head at you incredulously. “You’re the only person in the world who thinks that, kid. But thanks. Not such shabby company yourself.” 

He grins and it makes you want to hug him, so you do. Any other day you’d deliberately deny yourself this, refuse to indulge such a weird desire. You’d put distance between your bodies, you’d walk _away_. But the champagne has you messy and impulsive so right there on his hotel bed, you hook your arm around his neck, press your face into the ditch of it. He smells like aftershave and cologne and laundry and _heat,_ and the whole of it makes your stomach drop, makes your hips cant away instinctually, like you know they’d make everything weird. His breath huffs out of him and he pats your back awkwardly. “Ok, that’s enough,” he murmurs. “Don’t get too excited.” 

“I miss like. Physical contact,” you admit, pulling away from the hug but not from his body. He’s so solid and your limbs feel heavy and clumsy so instead of worrying where to put them you just sag right into his body, shifting down the bed so your head is pillowed on his chest. You can hear his heart pounding madly under your ear, so fast you wonder if he’s scared of something, or if this is just what it’s _like_ to be old. “Since Sally and I broke up, I mean. I don't miss that much about it, but I miss, like. This,” you explain, gesturing to the way you’re notched up against him. “It just. Feels really nice. You feel nice.” 

“Hm,” he says gently, breath warm against your temple. He reaches for the champagne bottle and takes a few long, purposeful drinks before setting it down again. “Not sure this is the best substitute, boy. For you missing your girlfriend.” 

You rub your cheek into the thud of his heart, wishing it would slow down. “Does it feel nice for you, too?” you ask, ignoring him. You don't have energy or words to explain how you’re not missing Sally right now, you’re not missing anything _specific_ to that relationship. Just touch, heat, warmth. You get _everything else_ you want from Doc, this is the only thing that’s missing. He’s not a substitute for anything. 

He laughs, and something about it sounds self-deprecating, dark. “Course it feels nice. Feels amazing,” he admits. His voice is torn and soft in this way you’ve only heard when he talks about the past, about racing. It makes a weird heat curl in your gut. 

“See?” you mumble, blinking as you try to focus on the TV, settling further against him. “Don’t fix something that’s not broken.” There's a loaded pause and then his hand, which has been hovering somewhere awkwardly above your body, drops gently to your head and you shiver. “I like having my hair played with,” you urge. 

“Not gonna play with your hair, kid,” he murmurs, but it’s an absolute fucking lie, because as soon as those words are out of his mouth he’s sifting through the loose curls, tender and sweet and exploratory. Maybe he was trying to convince himself, more than you, but you hum appreciatively anyway, encouraging it. 

The room gets quiet, and his heart continues to pound, the thud of it so deafening you wouldn't be able to to make out the dialogue on TV even if you cared to. You close your eyes, feeling all light and fuzzy and drowsy and _good_ as he touches you, thumbs over the shell of your ear, razing his nails over your scalp. It’s the best thing you’ve ever felt, soothing and comforting, but also weirdly thrilling, making your breath catch, your stomach coil up and drop over and over again. 

You don't even realize you’re getting hard until it’s too late. 

The fabric of your boxers is wet where the head of your cock is pressed and leaking, and as you notice this, your eyes snap open, your heart stops. You shift a bit and Doc’s pulse, which had only just begun to even out, picks up under your cheek again, racing. “Fuck,” you mumble, rubbing your face into his shirt, the fiber of reality feeling tenuous, weak in such a way you’re not worried what might happen if you tell him what’s going on. “That’s making me hard.” 

His hand freezes as his heartbeat speeds even _more,_ which you weren’t even sure was possible at this point. “Should I stop?” he asks, the very tips of his fingers still brushing against your hair. 

“No,” you say, closing your eyes, hands sweating where they’re curled up against your chest. “S’fine.” 

He pauses, wavers under you like he’s considering whether or not he should actually listen to you, champagne-sweet breath coming fast and labored. You roll over so your back is pressed to his chest instead of you lying face to face, reach for his arm and drop it down onto your side. “Here, you can spoon me instead. In case you're worried about feeling my dick on your leg or something.” 

“M’not worried about _that,”_ he mumbles, even as he shifts closer, settles his hand tentatively on your hip with his face pressed into your hair. He exhales low and deep and it tickles, makes you whimper. He’s so solid and so warm and smells so good and you feel _crazy,_ like you’re falling apart and the only thing keeping you glued together is the heat of his body against yours, the solid line of him containing the wild mess you’ve become. 

“What’re you worried about?” you ask, because he's worried about _something,_ you can tell by the way he’s breathing, the urgent thrum of his heart where it’s pressed to your spine. He’s gently rubbing up your side, rucking your shirt up a bit, making your skin prickle in a wave of gooseflesh. 

He’s quiet for a long time, thumbing up and down the ditch of your waist, inhaling from your hair, probably smelling the gel you combed into it in a useless attempt to try and smooth the messy whorls for the benefit. The way his hands feel is making your cock ache, making you want _more,_ so much _more_ than just _this_. 

Your mind is racing but you’re too drunk to make sense of it. All you know is that you’re always wanting to touch Doc or for Doc to touch you, but you’ve refused to actually _let it happen,_ fearing what it might mean, how it might change things. You built a wall around that want, but now the wall is crumbling, washing away in a champagne tide and you’re realizing all this time, what you were running away from was _attraction._ Desire. Your stomach is knotted up and your cock is flexing in your boxers and you desperately want to take yourself in hand, but not as desperately as you want _Doc_ to do it for you. “I’m worried,” he says, lips hot against your neck and his mustache scouring the already irritated skin there. “Of losing control.” 

Something breaks inside your ribcage, allows the tide rush in and drown you. 

“Touch me,” you whisper, eyes screwed shut tight. You back your ass up into the cradle of his hips and feel _his_ cock, feel _he’s_ hard too, just from this, from petting your hair, and your heart goes crazy in your chest, throwing itself repeatedly against your sternum like a bird in a cage. “Please.” 

His hand stutters on your side, and he digs his thumb in between your ribs. “I am touching you.” 

“No, I mean—you know what I mean. You don't have to, if you don't want, but— _god,_ I want it. I want it really bad,” you admit. It’s strange, how it feels on your tongue, to confess to _wanting_ Doc. You feel like it’s always been there, and you always _knew,_ but saying it aloud lifts an enormous weight. Veils of denial and fear evaporating into dust, in this single moment as you burn up under the hotel overhead lights. 

His big hand moves over your hip so spread wide on your stomach, which is heaving with your breath. He thumbs over the ridges of muscle, little finger smoothing over the coarse hair below your navel, just above the hem of your boxers. _Please, god, just touch it, please,_ you think, head spinning, reduced to an absolute ruin as he gets closer. “You’re sure?” he asks, shifting so his mouth is pressed to the cut of your cheekbone, almost a kiss but not quite. You're flushed there, and your skin must feel so _hot_ to him, your hunger a palpable thing. “I need to know you’re _sure,_ kid. Because I won't be able to come back from this. S’not a one time experiment, for me. It’s everything.” 

“I—have you thought about this before?” you ask, sucking in a messy breath as he rubs his nose into your temple, pushes just two fingers under the elastic of your boxers, everything tense and trembling beneath him. Your cock twitches and you murmur, “touching me?” 

His laugh is full of breath and regret and starvation, and your stomach plummets at the sound of it, your skin prickling under the scorching huff. “It’s _all_ I think about,” he growls, voice ripped over something like a sob. “I dream about it. Can hardly look at you without wanting it. You haunt me, boy. I’ve been haunted. All this time.” 

“Jesus christ,” you mumble, hips snapping involuntarily, craving friction. He presses the burning line of his cock into your ass and you push right back, a desperate, wordless sound falling from your lips before you swallow messily, mouth suddenly flooded with saliva. “Doc. I—you can _have_ it, s’yours. Been yours.” 

He makes a fist in your hair with the hand that’s not spread wide and teasing right above where you need it, and he tilts you back to look at him. Static explodes around the periphery of your vision because his eyes are just _too_ blue, dark and focused on your drunk, parted, bitten mouth. Your gaze inevitably falls to his lips and without even thinking you slur, “kiss me,” and he _does_ , groans right into your tongue before he’s giving you his, everything hot-wet and rough save for the sweetness of champagne slicking you both up. 

He pushes his hand into your boxers as he kisses you breathless, and you feel yourself dissolve, your thighs shudder and part. He’s not even _touching_ you yet, just letting your cock flex wet and heavy on the back of his hand while he smears your precum into your pubes. You’re gasping when he breaks your kiss, anchors himself by pressing your foreheads together. “God, you’re so fucking _wet,”_ he growls, pulling your hair, putting you where he wants you. “That’s just from my hand in your hair?” 

“Yeah,” you hiss, rolling your hips impatiently, seeking heat, pressure, contact beyond what he's giving you. “And listening to your heart,” you admit. “It was beating so hard.” 

“Fuck,” he grinds out, the word getting thin and tattered as he presses it to your lips with his own, licking you open, biting you. “Of course it was. It does every time you’re close.” 

It’s too much for you; you’ve gone blind and crazy, the whole of your body vibrating under his as he bears down on you, mouths over your neck. “Doc,” you whine, bucking your hips, vision whiting out. “Fucking _touch me,_ please.” 

“You want my hand on your cock?” he whispers against you, licking a stripe over your thundering pulse. “Want me to make you come?” 

“Yes, _please,_ please, _fuck,”_ you whimper, pushing your face into his thinning hair, loving the downy softness of it against your lips, the way you can smell his sweat sharp and musky. Now that you _have all this,_ you’re realizing with a powerful clarity how much you _needed_ it, how much you’ve wanted it it all this time. You haven't consciously been waiting a lifetime, but your _deepest_ self has beentortured with longing and silenced by the rest of you, and to have him rush in and fill the willing vacancy you created is so, _so_ fucking overwhelming. 

There are tears on your cheeks and he kisses them away, thumbs the wet clotted mess of your lashes with one hand while he tugs your waistband down with the other. 

Your cock thumps against your stomach, and he shifts down and presses his forehead to your rapidly heaving chest so he can look at it. “Gorgeous boy,” he whispers, almost to himself, curling his fingers around you, palm big and hot and _shocking_ it’s so good. You lurch, gasp, fuck into his fist as he works it up and down your length, thumb gliding over the messy-wet tip. 

“Oh my god, _how_ is that so fucking good,” you gasp, clawing all over his shoulders, slipping your hand into the loose collar of his shirt to feel his back, where the skin is sweat-damp, soft. It’s just a hand on your cock, it shouldn’t _feel_ like this, but your ears are ringing and your stomach muscles are spasming and you’ve become a teenager again, like you might come without warning, orgasm chasing you instead of you chasing it. 

He jerks you off steady and certain and firm, like he knows your body, like your cock is made for his hand. “S’good because I've been waiting my whole life for it. To touch a boy like you,” he growls against your skin, kissing your throat, your collar bones, grazing his teeth so you flush even deeper. “To touch _you_.” 

It punches through your chest and before you can warn him your spine is arching up off the bed as you come all over yourself, ribbons of it landing on your rucked open dress shirt, white on white. You gasp but he’s the one who groans aloud, rubbing his lips into you, slicking your chest in tears. 

You like there shuddering and panting while he wipes the come off your shirt before shoving his now sticky hand into his own trousers to touch himself. “Wait,” you pant, cupping his face with awed, trembling hands. “I want to watch.” He shakes his head like he can’t believe you, like everything you say drives him crazy, and it inspires you so you don't stop. “Want you to come all over me,” you beg, unbuttoning the few remaining buttons of your shirt, baring your chest to him. “Please.” 

He gasps, his eyes flutter closed. 

“So perfect, know just what I want,” he says then, holding himself up with one unsteady arm as he fists his cock with the other, crown red each time he reveals it on the downstroke. He’s thick and so hard and just the _sight_ of it leaves you breathless, the knowledge that he’d dwarf you if you compared sizes. Your spent cock twitches on your stomach at the thought. You try to hook a leg around his back but your boxers are still on in a tangle around your thighs, so you wiggle them down, free one leg so you can properly spread yourself for him. 

“Please,” you beg, giving him your whole body, so he can come wherever the fuck he wants. Your cock, your stomach, your _face,_ the split of your legs. “Give it to me.” 

His expression turns dark and possessive, tightening low in your gut. His hand is moving so fast over his cock you can’t watch without getting dizzy so you just close your eyes, pull him down to kiss instead. 

The first few drips of it land right on your happy trail, and then he's arranging you messily, pulling you up and bending you in half in a single jerky motion so that he can rub his coming cock right into the crack of your ass, head nudged up against your ball sac. It feels so wet and so dirty-hot you sob with the feeling, holding onto him like you might end up drifting out to sea if you don’t. 

When you open your eyes they’re bleary, there’s a halo around the light. He sits up and watches you as you take in a shuddering breath, sinking into the feeling of being boneless under him, painted in his come. “Thank you,” you murmur in a shaky voice, and he drifts forward to kiss you, slow and sweet, like it’s the first time, like he hasn't just wrecked you to bits. 

“When you took your shoes and pants off and were lying here in my bed in nothing but that shirt?” he says gently, rolling off you without letting go of your face, thumb pressed into the tear-sticky flush of your cheek. “I thought, _shit._ Gonna have to drink this whole bottle of champagne if I want to survive, tonight.” 

“I hope this is a better outcome,” you mumble, getting close, sharing his breath, ghosting your eyelashes against his cheek, seeing how close you can get without _touching_ touching, how long you can stand butterfly kisses before you need a real kiss. It’s all so new, but it also feels like an inevitable end, live you’ve been drifting around him in closer and closer orbital paths, waiting to catch fire. “Thank god for that champagne, honestly. I’ve been in denial about this for ages. I was so scared to get too close, because I knew—I _knew._ I’d fall right in.” 

“Well,” he whispers, palming up your ribcage, fingers spreading over your heart. “I was already in real deep, kid. Treading water. Glad you’re here, too. Glad m’not alone.” 

“Hm,” you sigh, letting him kiss you, lick your teeth, suck your tongue, hands wrist deep in your hair. You feel contained and consumed and it’s more like drowning than treading water, but you’re ok with that. “Me too,” you confess between soft, insistent presses of his lips. “Definitely not alone.” 


End file.
